


To Make Sure and Mend

by 17 pansies (17pansies)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fix-It, Kiss it better, M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17pansies/pseuds/17%20pansies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is recovering, Clint tracks him down.  </p><p>A short piece of fix-it, taken from a much longer WIP that isn't co-operating.  Because I have to fix this, damnit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make Sure and Mend

Phil looks in the mirror as he wraps the towel around his waist. The scar is still viciously red, but whatever sutures they’d used have dissolved into his skin leaving him with the faintest line of dots each side. It looks more like a cartoon scar than something that had near as damn it finished him off all together. He shrugs mentally, having learned the hard way not to actually lift his shoulders like that just yet, and pads barefoot out to the kitchen.

His first instinct is to reach for one of the many weapons he has concealed around the apartment. On the counter sits a takeaway cup of steaming coffee, the smell of a double shot non fat hazelnut latte filling the air. He hadn’t heard a sound and a faint prickle runs up the back of his neck.

“Barton,” he says quietly, and Clint steps into view.

Anything else Phil may have been about to say gets stuck in his throat. The look of raw pain on Clint’s face is like a punch to the gut and he reaches out towards him.

Clint flinches away as if he’s been slapped.

“Coulson…” he says, voice hoarse. “Boss. They - Tasha, Fury - said you were dead.” A world of hurt colours his words.

“I was,” Phil says, letting the hand that is halfway towards Clint drop. “For about thirty seconds. Then I was unconscious for ten days.” A brief frown creases the space between his eyebrows. “They didn’t tell you I was okay?”

Clint shakes his head, lips pressed together in a thin line, more emotion on his face now than Phil has seen over the past few years. 

“I’m okay,” Phil repeats. A vague gesture to the red line down his chest. “A new scar, to add to the collection, but I’ll be fine.”

Clint’s gaze fixes on the mark left by Loki’s spear, flicking between Phil’s eyes and his chest.

“There’s a matching one on my back too,” Phil tells him.

“You were dead,” Clint says in a dull voice. “Oh, god, Phil…”

Next moment, Clint is wrapping himself around Phil and kissing him like Phil holds the breath he needs to live. Phil can taste the fear and bitter sadness, feel the desperation in Clint’s powerful arms and he slides his arms around Clint’s waist, unsure who is holding whom up. A half formed plan to set the Hulk on Fury for keeping this a secret from his team stutters to a halt before he can work out how to implement it because all of his senses are focussed on the shaking, needy man who is now burying his face in Phil’s neck and appears to be on the verge of having a complete meltdown.

“Shh. Barton,” Phil says, in his best handler voice. “Sit down.”

Somehow, they make it onto the sofa and Phil sits, suppressing a wince. Clint hasn’t let go, only shifts slightly to accommodate him and Phil has a fleeting moment of wondering if he will ever be able to do anything again without Barton physically attached to him in some way.

“I’m okay,” he repeats and Clint looks up. The hurt is still there in his eyes though.

“Nothing is ever going to be okay again,” Clint mutters. “You were dead, totally dead for two whole weeks and I don’t ever remember feeling so goddamned awful.”

That’s saying something, considering his history, Phil thinks. He relaxes slowly against the back of the sofa, drawing Clint with him, and Clint almost curls into a ball next to him, head on Phil’s shoulder, nose buried in his still damp skin.

Gradually, Clint begins to soften against him, muscles losing some of their panicked tenseness.

“Want to explain how you found me and what exactly you had in mind when you broke into my apartment?” Phil asks.

“I brought you coffee,” is Clint’s muffled response and Phil can only laugh at that. It’s a very quiet, very restrained little snort of a laugh but it makes Clint look up sharply.

“Thank you,” and there’s a world of sincerity in Phil’s voice. “Maybe if you want to pass it to me, so I can drink it whilst it’s still hot? Considering I’ve not had a decent cup of coffee in a couple of weeks.”

“Longer than that,” Clint replies, but he doesn’t move to rise. Instead, Clint cups Phil’s face with one hand that is rock steady and warm. “But I just – just need…” 

To make sure, Phil thinks, as their lips meet again.


End file.
